The Legend of the Ditto Twins (65 page)

"Then
go live in France."

"Does
that mean you're not going to take our case?"

"It
means that no one—not even the ACLU—could win this case. No. It's impossible.
Hopeless."

Clark
replied instantly. "A hopeless cause is the only one worth fighting for. I
heard that in a movie once."

I turned
to him. "Hey, that's right. I remember. Who was in it? Spencer Tracy,
maybe?"

Clark
shook his head. "Was it in Technicolor?"

"Nah.
Black and white. Maybe John Wayne?"

"Will
you shut up!" Blumenfeld stood. "This isn't Trivial Pursuit!"

For a
moment, we thought he was going to leave, but instead he began to pace,
carefully putting one foot in front of the other as if walking some invisible
line.

"We'll
never win. Not at this point in time. But... It might be interesting to... get
it on the table."

For the
first time since we'd met him, we saw his professional mask drop. Behind it,
his eyes were alive.

"We'd
have to avoid The I Word wherever possible. What could we call it? Something
like 'Genetic Rights.' 'Blood Rights'? No, 'Family Rights.' That's not bad.
We'd need expert witnesses, of course. I wonder if we could find any
psychiatrists to testify."

"Then
it isn't a hopeless cause?"

"Didn't
you hear me? This is one we can't win. Our goal would not be to win. Our goal
would be to open the door, get things started, so that someone else could
finish the job fifty years down the pike. Let me talk to the powers that be.
I'm not promising anything."

I heard
Tanisha mutter, "Legendary." And when I looked over at her, she was
smiling. I'd never seen her smile before. I turned back to Blumenfeld.

"You
really think it's a hopeless cause?" I asked.

He nodded
sadly. "But, as you say, they're the only ones worth fighting for. By the
way, it's Jimmy Stewart.
Mr.
Smith Goes to Washington."

During
the first year of the new century, a lot happened. We turned twenty-one. The
ACLU decided to take our case. Mario married the girl his family had chosen for
him, but she filed for desertion when, during their honeymoon, he went clubbing
without her. Tanisha and Ricky formed The Church of the Zodiac and became
televangelists. The Hudson Twins moved to Tijuana where they enjoyed a modest
fame doing live sex shows. Lily and Phil headed for LA to found their own
independent film studio, and their first effort was accepted at Sundance. Mom
and Dad sold the dairy and vanished without leaving a forwarding address. Clay
slipped further and further into the fog of loss and talked constantly to Jay.

Clark and
I sublet an apartment in Chelsea. We left half our inheritance in Geneva and
took the other half in cash, which we stashed away in a lock box at a Chase
Manhattan Bank branch in Times Square. We continued to live modestly, as we
always had. The biggest extravagance we allowed ourselves was shipping our
beloved Mazda to Manhattan, and it was money well spent. In it, we tooled all
over town, first Manhattan, then the outer boroughs, and eventually to more
exotic locales, such as Fire Island and The Hamptons.

Okay,
maybe we didn't have much of a social life, but as the weeks passed, we became
more and more secure in our knowledge that we really didn't need anyone else in
our world. I made Clark happy; he made me happy. We proved it to each other
every night. And every day we worked with Blumenfeld on our long journey to the
Supreme Court.

The legal
process takes forever. It was June before we went to trial.
Six months!
Blumenfeld convinced us to plead "Not guilty" on grounds that the
incest law was unconstitutional. ("We're almost sure to lose at the trial
level," he explained, "but it preserves the argument for
appeal.")

We also
waived our right to a jury, leaving our fate in the hands of a judge. ("A jury
is more easily swayed by the inflammatory nature of the charges," decided
Blumenfeld. "Hopefully, a judge is more likely to approach the facts more
rationally. But there's no guarantee he will.")

During
the trial, Clay began to change. He had good days and bad. He frequently
sounded the same as always, but every now and then a glazed look would come
over his eyes, and he would float off into some never-never land.

The first
time it happened, I snapped my fingers, and Clark jokingly said, "Hey,
Clay, wake up. Where did you go?"

He lit a
cigarette. "Just talking to Jay."

The
second time it happened, we said nothing.

By all
accounts, the trial itself was a shocker, a scandal that had to be reported
largely with euphemisms in family newspapers and on the air. Some of the
testimony was very explicit—but standards did shift slightly. For example, it
was the first time we ever heard the phrase "anal intercourse" spoken
on the Six O'clock News.

The Ditto
Twins were back on the front page for weeks that summer. With the consent—no,
encouragement—of Blumenfeld, we gave interviews whenever requested and never
missed an opportunity to share our philosophy of love with anyone who'd listen.
On the other hand, we also found ourselves to be very adept at evading the press
when we wanted to. You'd be amazed at how easy it is to hide behind a baseball
cap, a couple of days' stubble, and sunglasses.

When the
trial came to an end just after Labor Day, Clay flew home and the waiting
began. In December, the judge finally rendered his decision. Just as Blumenfeld
had predicted, we were found guilty of incest. But we remained free on bail,
pending our appeal, so we celebrated with orchestra seats to
The Full Monty
and a
ten-hour marathon of sexual excess that was unprecedented, even for us.

During
the Christmas holidays, we mostly stayed home and watched old movies. On New
Year's Eve, we rented a DVD of
Show
Boat
and sang along with Kathryn Grayson
as everyone caroled "Auld Lang
Syne
" in a
nightclub very different from Coliseum. God, how things had changed in the last
twelve months.

On the
second of January, one year to the day since we had been arrested, we met with
Blumenfeld to begin our real work—preparing for the appeal. That was the
morning he suggested we consider bringing other lawyers aboard the defense
team—"outside counsel," he called them. Explaining that in his gut he
felt we still had not found the argument that would provide us even a chance of
victory, he strongly urged us to let him seek outside help.

"What
we need is a cross between Emile Zola and Clarence Darrow, someone with a legal
mind so devious that he can find the keyhole to a back door that we don't even
know exists." That's the way he phrased it.

Thus
began our appointments with one attorney after another from all the ritziest
"white shoe law firms" of Manhattan. Blumenfeld arranged lunches,
drinks, meetings with anyone on his list of candidates who had expressed the
slightest interest in our cause—and who were willing to work
pro bono.
Initially, every one of these titans of the bar seemed intrigued by the
challenge; ultimately, each apologetically found other things to do. As winter
turned to spring, we began to get more and more depressed. I didn't touch the
memoirs for a month.

We didn't
see Clay again till he flew in to spend the Fourth of July with us. Again, he
had his good days and his bad. But this time there were more bad days than
good. Independence Day itself is a perfect example. In the morning he was his
old self.

"You
know, guys, I've been thinking," he said as the three of us sat around the
kitchen table, smoking and drinking coffee. "Is all this really worth
it?"

"What
do you mean?" In unison.

"You
don't have a fuckin' life."

"Sure,
we do. Maybe this place isn't the Waldorf-Astoria..."

“...but it's
all we need. And we've got the Mazda for whenever we feel stir crazy..."

“...and
most important of all..."

We
finished in unison: "We've got each other."

"But
what happens if you lose the appeal?"

"Then
we go to the Supreme Court." In unison.

"But
what if they refuse to hear your case? Are you prepared to serve time? Behind
bars? How many fuckin years?" Clay hit the next two words hard.
"Separated. Apart."

"That's
not going to happen," we replied instantly. At that point, I think we
still believed it.

"Still,
it seems to me you should have a Plan
B."

"Such
as?" In unison.

"That
ranch in Canada you're always talking about."

As we
silently considered his suggestion, Clay's eyes seemed to glaze over, and he
added, "It's Jay's idea."

That very
same evening, right after "Jeopardy," he announced, "I'm out of
cigarettes. I'll just run downstairs to the deli. Be right back. Need
anything?"

As the
minutes turned to hours and he didn't come back, we grew more and more
concerned. We checked with our friends who ran the delicatessen; they hadn't
seen him. We were about to call the police when the doorbell rang.

"Damnedest
thing," he said as he walked in. "I couldn't remember where you
fuckin lived. Must have had a spell."

"Spell?"
In unison.

"No
big deal. I have em once in awhile. Only Jay always finds me, gets me home. But
this time, I couldn't fuckin' find him either. We got any coffee?"

Within
hours, we called Lily and made arrangements for him to have a
caretaker/housekeeper. When he didn't resist, we realized he wasn't even aware
of what was happening.

Now that
we've been living here over a year, Clark and I have decided that autumn in New
York is our favorite time. This morning, with its clear blue skies and cotton
candy clouds, is as perfect a September day as you could imagine. We awoke
about six and spent a long time in the shower. Nice, as always.

Now,
Clark's bitching at me to get dressed. We have a nine o'clock power breakfast
with another "white shoe" attorney, but we always try to be early.
I'm not holding out much hope, and I told Clark so.

"Me
either," he said. "Maybe we should just forget the whole thing. Of
course, if we do, we'll probably go to jail."